ISSUE 12

Jae Newman

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​​​​Rest Stop

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On the way back from a day trip—the kind where you depart hoping

                you’ll return different somehow for the miles logged

                as if the air in a different city might jumpstart what’s been disregarded

 

long ago.  So long that you have no memory or right to protest, just a tag

                on some T-shirt sewn inside your skin so deep you can’t remove it

                or ask anyone what it says.  At the rest stop, alone, no one knows

 

you or the version of you that you’ve been working on—the social you, the listener,

                or the artist who holds pain so tight the other versions feel lightning when

                they piss.  You think maybe this will pass.  Maybe you won’t always feel

 

another kidney stone struggling out, the pain in your side vibrating

                through all your yous.  On a plastic tray, you see what you ordered:

                another burger, another Coke.  How many more can you consume to hide

 

that neither is what you want?  How many fries will you eat staring in the distance

                wondering what the weather is like in Cheju today when your face constricts

                as a tour bus of Asians suddenly enter.  Each orders

 

Burger King, Sbarro's, or Starbucks.  Each sits down around you in that little dining area

                and you tell the public you to keep it together, to not make a big deal about the fact

                you have never been surrounded by so many people who look like you. 

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Korean War

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“Nobody intends to put up a wall!" —Walter Ubricht, East German Premier

 

 

      1. Rhee:

Let me begin,

and if the first word is mine

let it be this: Yes,

Jesus loves me.

My Bible tells me so.

 

2. Kim Sung Il:

I can not stand by:

such abuses to my peninsula

are American in fault.

Let me restore, give rice

to the poor. Stalin, may I

invade, I mean, unify.

 

      3. Rhee:

Sentenced to life in Hawaii,

I flew away in a helicopter

to preserve my name: Rhee

for President. Say it, embezzle,

smezzle. Re-elect me.​

 

4. Kim Sung Il:

Men of Korea,

I will create a new language,

one of our own. You may not

recognize me. As of now, I remain

eternal in stature. Yours,

Dear Leader.

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5.

If a voice is needed,

no son of Korea is more fit

 

To shame,

No!

                                                                                                                To dishonor,

No!

 

To represent

more than I. 

 

Of the flesh, of the mind,

it is a perfect union

until I speak, until you sigh.

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      6. Rhee:

Whether I am loved or not,

my name is whispered

in the trees. Of the past,

here, have a lei. What lines

I crossed, what bombs I want

are my business and business

is good.

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7. Kim, Sung Il:

Confucius says, Respect your father.

You know this to be true.

Ignore my son. He’s

an idiot.  I am your Dearest Leader.

Gather round in need of me.

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      8. Rhee:

Would it help if I said

I knew Jesus? Met him

in a snowy cave, shared rice wine

in a stone cup and saw

blueprints of the Way:

It’s tapped into

my left shoulder.

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9. Kim, Sung Il:

If only I had

secured the beach of Incheon,

sent Americans away in body bags.

I was your leader once.

Raise me from the grave!

 

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10.

Old men, ghosts!  Back into your corners.

The page is mine

and I go                                                              

                                                                where I delight.                                                Of course

 

the line where time courts forgiveness

               

                                (and not the

                                                I-know-Jesus-so-you-can-too kind, or

                                                               

                                                                                the Listen-to-me-because-your-father-did kind,

               

but my line,

                one of beautiful, incomplete authenticity)

 

                                                                                                is a warmth, bleeding that begins

                                                                                                as loneliness

                                                                                                only to reinvent one life not had

 

                                is not mine to draw.  Still,

                                                                                                                                this blood is mine!

And despite all the red meat, my mind

 

                                                can’t unwind until this is over.  Sixty years is a long time

                                                to be unraveling, unraveling through time.  Motherlands

                                                don’t cry for children not their own. And though

 

I don’t know which part of me is speaking, damn,

                                                                                                                this could be over.  If I cared

what you thought I might not say this, might not say

               

                                                you deny me because I know what your leaders don’t.

 

From a man who knows no end exists under this sun

                                                                                or another, I side-step breakdowns sent

 

to consume me to stand among you as a Kim, one

                                                                                of that large family with good dietary genes

                               

                munching on potato chips, dreaming of peace.  Dear Korea,

 

                                You could not break me as a boy.  You will not

                                break me as a man.

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